Study in Gray
by Belka
Summary: Post-canon story. Argentina, 1950. A series of strange murderes makes Colonel Landa to forget about serenity and idleness of his new life and start the investigation. Highly possible AU and OOC, some original characters.
1. Prologue

First of all, I'd like to express my gratitude to my precious friend and Russian beta-reader of this story - **Mary Eglantine**, to my English editor and good friend (I cannot call her a beta-reader, her work is priceless!) **DeboraKLA**, to my translator **Yana Starikova** and to **Artemis Day** and **Ayala Steelfire** - for their invaluable help:)

**Study in Gray.**

_**Imaginary evil is romantic and varied, full of charm; imaginary good is tiresome and flat. Real evil, however, is drear, monotonous, barren. Real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating.**_

_**Simone Weil.**_

**Introduction**

Once, early in the morning, Beelzebub arose,

With care his sweet person adorning,

He put on his Sunday clothes.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, "The Devil's Walk".

_**Buenos Aires, 1950.**_

_It was a quarter of an hour before the shop's closing when his most important customer arrived to see Señor Ramirez. The shop owner motioned to his assistant - a gawky teenager named Ricardo - to shut the door and put up the "Closed" sign as soon as he entered._

"_Señor Lang!" Ramirez greeted his guest with a broad smile and a strong, sweaty handshake._

"_Señor Ramirez," the customer, a spare European dressed in a pearl-grey suit, smiled back, discreetly removing a snow-white handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his hand thoroughly, then tossed the hankie into the waste bin. "My apologies for the late visit." He paused to give the shop owner time to acknowledge his importance. "Every visit to your shop is a genuine treat for me, but my circumstances make our meetings rarer than I would wish__—__"_

_He said this with a touch of a smile, one full of awareness of his personal responsibility and helplessness in the face of his "circumstances"._

"_Trust me, Señor Lang," the shop owner interrupted hastily, "we always look forward to seeing you." Ramirez gazed at his guest with dogged affection, his hands clasped as though in prayer. _

_Lang took time to look through the vinyl records in the "New" box, paying no attention to the shop owner. Finally he put the last cardboard envelope back in the box and, skimming the shelves, uttered dreamily, "I can't wait to see what you have found for me - "_

_The shop owner, as if suddenly awoken from the sweetest dream, smiled guiltily, flashing a golden tooth. He turned to the back office and barked: "Ricardo! Fetch the films they've brought us today!"_

_After a few minutes of hustle and bustle, scraping metal and squeaking shelves, Ricardo emerged from the darkness, dragging two crates of tin boxes. He set them down quickly and, without waiting for further direction, disappeared once again into the darkness of the back office to get more._

_Lang squatted down in front of the crates. '''The Wizard of Oz'_—_you must be joking, Ramirez," he said with a touch of a frown, though his tone was light-hearted. _

_The shop owner mumbled that they'd received too many films all at once and had no time to sort them out, but Lang waved him off absently._

"'_Rebecca'… hmm…'Joan Fontaine and Laurence Olivier in Alfred Hitchcock's thriller'… that might be interesting - "_

_Ricardo dragged out two more crates._

"'_The Lady Vanishes', 'The 39 Steps', 'Shadow of a Doubt'… Ramirez, you have quite a collection of Hitchcock's films…'The Way Ahead'…ah, yes, a valiant British __platoon__ against Rommel's Tank Corps!" Lang didn't even attempt to conceal the irony in his voice._

"_I'd like to suggest 'You Were Never Lovelier,'" said the shop owner timidly. _

"'_You Were Never Lovelier'? Who starred in it?"_

"_Rita Hayworth, Señor Lang, and Fred Astaire."_

_Lang sniffed in a most ungentlemanly manner. "I've seen it already. Please, spare me from the sight of Hayworth's scrawny legs and flat behind."_

"_Well then, what do you say to Vivien Leigh? We have 'That Hamilton Woman' and 'Caesar and Cleopatra'."_

_Lang thought for some time, and then decided he would take both._

_More and more films emerged from the back office. Lang took his time choosing. He mulled aloud over every film, rejecting some and then musing over them again, taking absolutely no heed of how increasingly worn out Ramirez and Ricardo were becoming._

_Ramirez could wait hours on end, however – Lang was his most important customer. His small shop sold books, magazines and records, but for some customers he bought films (illegally, of course). Lang was special because he didn't buy the sixteen-millimeter prints; he bought the genuine thirty-five-millimeter films designed for projection in commercial cinemas. Depending on the amount of footage, one film was usually recorded on three or four reels stored in flat, tin boxes. Lang usually bought several at once – he could easily put several boxes of the reels in the large trunk of his Mercedes. _

_Unlike other cineastes – Ramirez had several such customers– Lang usually ordered the films himself and patiently awaited their arrival. He was not a voracious viewer, often preferring old, forgotten black-and-white silents to the newest, most popular color spectaculars._

_At last, all the selections were made and a bargain was struck – the cash flowed into the till, the change into Señor Lang's pocket, and the boxes of film into the trunk of his car. Lang gave ear to Ramirez pouring out his thanks, nodded absently and left the shop with a growing smile on his face._


	2. Chapter I

**Chapter 1: Poker**

The glittering lights of Buenos Aires at night were long behind him when Lang plunged into the heavy, thick darkness of his home. It was still and silent inside. The walls cut off every sound from the street; only the tick-tock of a clock tore at the silence, cutting off every passing minute.

Lang threw his hat on pier-glass table in the hallway and opened a door, revealing a velvet pitch-black room full of the faint yet tart aroma of celluloid.

Lang's home cinema consisted of a tiny projection booth with two projectors and a small theater. A year after Lang had moved into the house he hired workmen to remake a spacious and—for him, useless—living room into a cinema for one solitary viewer.

He switched on the projector and blinked at the bright light that filled the room. He took a flat, tin box out of one of the heavy boxes he'd brought in. It bore a great resemblance to a giant candy box. He scrutinized the label for some time, his graceful fingers wandering over the tin lid.

Finally, he opened the tin. The roll of ebony black film glittered, the sweet, almost intoxicating aroma of new celluloid filling his senses.

///

The projector was ready, the first reel of 'Pygmalion' was in, and a bottle of expensive scotch and an empty glass sparkled in the dark shade of the room.

Lang left that pleasant, enveloping darkness briefly to ensure that all the doors were locked and all the drapes drawn. He held on to the pier-glass in the hallway for a second. Its silver surface reflected a distinguished face with a whimsical mouth and inscrutable green eyes.

The telephone's ring ripped through the silence like the stab of a knife. Lang glanced at the clock—it was quarter past ten. He knew who was calling, and for a few seconds he simply stared at the ringing phone—after all, Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering were waiting for him next door, far more interesting company than the person calling.

But the caller on the other end of the line knew how Lang felt about late-night telephone calls and held on. Finally, he gave up.

"Yes, I hear you," he answered, the light-hearted tone in his voice a sharp contrast to the impassive expression on his face.

"Landa! You, old rascal, come here—we're set up for poker and badly need your brilliant bluffing!" It was the trembling voice of August Hellstrom, full of his usual false cheer.

Former SS Standartenführer Hans Landa, now known as Caspar Lang, rolled his eyes. He replied in an almost carefree tone, "August, my friend, I'm sure you'll do very well without me—"

"Hell no, Landa! I want to win back what I lost last time! Come on, nothing will happen to your movies; come, we urgently need a worthy competitor!"

Landa paused to gaze at his perfectly groomed nails, letting Hellstrom think he was considering his decision. Finally he replied: "I'm afraid, I'm not in my best shape—"

"That's great," his caller interrupted, "it means I won't be left penniless again."

_To hell with you,_ thought Landa. He glanced at his reflection in the telescope and practiced a friendly smile. When pleased with it, he responded cordially, "My dear August, you know perfectly well that I cannot abandon you when you're under the threat of bad competition in poker. I'll be there in half an hour."

///

Landa believed that weak players were an even greater evil than weak hands in poker. He didn't like card games much; he thought they were a waste of time, but poker he played willingly, provided that the players were good. When they were, each game became his own benefit performance—he was so natural at pretending to restrain his disappointment about his losses at the beginning of the game that even the most experienced player relaxed—and was then hooked. Landa never missed the opportunity to watch the confusion, disappointment and anger of those who lost. After he'd enjoyed their suffering for a while, he would then rise from the table and casually state that he couldn't rob his friends, leaving most of the money on the table.

But now he was heading for Hellstrom's home, where there were no good players, which meant another night spent with useless company.

///

Martha Hellstrom met him at the door. "Hans, my boy, I'm so glad you've come," her voice was weak and colorless. Landa hated when she spoke to him as though he were a child—Martha was only ten years his senior—but then he noticed her dilated pupils and forced smile. Frau Hellstrom was a cocaine addict, and within these last few months her addiction had only grown stronger.

"Dear Martha, how could I possibly ignore your husband's desperate plea?" he put on his standard mask of a sympathetic friend. "How is he?"

Martha didn't even turn towards the living room, which was filled with the drunken laughter and shouts of the poker players.

"He's worse." Martha pulled her silk shawl tighter around her shoulders, as if she were cold. The dim lights and long shadows of the hallway played strange tricks with her face. The shadows around her hollow eyes and her unnatural smile turned into the eye sockets and grin of a skull, startling Landa. He looked away from that deathly countenance.

Martha touched his hand Martha her fingers were ice cold. "They are waiting for you." She turned and went up to her room, and shortly thereafter he heard the hissing and popping of an old gramophone playing a sprightly prewar German tune.

Landa took off his hat, elegantly smoothing his hair back from his forehead, and entered the room with a haughty smile.

"Hans!" the host's cheerful exclamation sank in around the sudden, stilled silence of his guests. Hellstrom was already loaded and didn't care about their reaction to Landa's appearance. Landa stepped to the table, and the dim lamp lit his face like a floodlight.

"August," he nodded to his host. "Why, Herr Hoffman, Willy, Albrecht – you are here, too!" He lavished radiant smiles on the other guests, ignoring their dark, hostile stares.

The effect his presence had on others always made Landa feel an almost indescribable, cruel pleasure. Every time he appeared in public among his acquaintances from the war, all eyes were instantly fixed on him, and especially on his high forehead, once so fine but now blemished with the still prominent swastika-shaped scar—a parting gift from the commander of the American Inglourious Basterd squad, Lieutenant Aldo Raine. The fear in their eyes was a feast for Landa, because he could see each person live through those appalling minutes and experience his humiliation. It was at these moments that Landa thought he was in fact the only untainted, unmarked man in the room, and the rest of them actually bore the hideous scar on their foreheads. It was especially gratifying to him that this particular effect was not a one-time occurrence; it happened every time he appeared in his friends' circle.

"August," Landa broke the silence, and in an almost frivolous tone, asked, "You haven't squandered away all your money yet, have you? May I win some, too?"

"Come, take a seat," Hellstrom pointed to a vacant chair, "we shall clean out these sharks, me and you!"

Landa would have preferred the company of Lon Chaney and Boris Karloff to that at the table – two youngsters whose parents took them away to Argentina when the war broke out, the increasingly corpulent veterinarian Hoffman, who had worked as a doctor in Dachau, and August Hellstrom, whom Landa had known long before the Anschluss.

Poker was little more than entertainment to his host. August Hellstrom never passed and always played for high stakes, even if his hand was weak. He was sixty-two; his bald head shone in the lamp light like polished ivory, his pale gnarled fingers clutching his cards. Cancer had attacked his lungs several months ago and now his body was failing, like wax melting in fire; the only thing August could console himself with at this stage was drinking and gambling. He sat between Willy and Albrecht, and compared to these rosy-cheeked, fair-haired youngsters he looked like the living dead. The contrast was made even more striking by the fact that August talked a great deal, usually loudly—mostly tall tales about his pre-war life—with numerous expressive gestures, whereas Willy and Albrecht sat still and silent, as though frozen in place.

It was not the first time that Landa had played in this company, and he knew well the habits of the other players. Hoffman was always extremely cautious; he staked low and closely observed the stakes of the other players. Bluffing was lost on him, because he was too absorbed in the financial aspects of the game, always busily calculating. But lots of low stakes could easily wear him down. Willy and Albrecht were shy at first, they confused the rules and didn't watch their stakes, but then they were quickly carried away by the game and abandoned all caution.

Landa knew exactly how the evening would proceed. They would play one or two games, then the cooing Marika Rökk on the gramophone record sound from behind the wall. Martha would appear in the doorway, offering them coffee. Everyone except Landa would refuse. Then Hellstrom would run out of spirits and open a new bottle. This is how it always was—they would play poker, puffing on cigars or cigarettes, drinking coffee, gin, or whiskey—until four in the morning.

The almost-scripted evening advanced flawlessly, with the hosts and the guests all playing their parts, without inspiration as it were, when suddenly Hellstrom remarked, "Dieter would have been thirty-four this week."

It seemed to Landa that another dead man had joined them at the table. Hoffman stared at the pile of bank notes and coins in the middle of the table. Willy and Albrecht ignored the remark. Each suspected the other of cheating and tried to peer at each other's hands. They were hothouse plants, after all, grown far from the war, and the name of Dieter Hellstrom meant nothing to them.

"What do you think? Would he have made oberstleutenant?"

"I'm sure he would have," Landa didn't want to go further into the subject.

August poured himself another full glass of gin, took a sip and went on. "He was a very talented boy, wasn't he, Hans?"

"One of the best." Hans offered the shadow of a mournful smile, but his eyes were still cold.

"One of the best…" August smiled with pride. "He would boast that the words "Good morning!" were enough for him to distinguish where a person was from."

Dieter Hellstrom, a Gestapo major, really had been one of the best young officers to serve in the Reich's armed forces. He was a true bloodhound, an outstanding dog of the Fuhrer's pack. Defining accents was his forte. Hellstrom-junior could distinguish not only German and Western-European dialects, but also a great number of accents of the former Austria-Hungarian Empire. This wonderful gift made him the perfect spy-hunter, and it was this same gift that killed him. Dieter Hellstrom died in a tiny basement bar—the "Louisiana" —in the French village of Nadine, where he was tracking his last, entirely accidental capture, which would have brought him the best trophy of his career.

Landa had seen his body with his own eyes; riddled with shots, lying on the floor among cigarette stubs and broken glass. Both the hunter and his prey were dead. There were two bodies near Hellstrom— Wilhelm Wicki and Hugo Stiglitz, both members of the Inglourious Basterds squad—as well as the corpse of British Lieutenant Archie Hickox, disguised as a hauptsturmfuhrer.

Although none of the eyewitnesses were alive, it was not difficult to see how it all happened – Dieter's keen ear must have caught Hickox's British accent, and he just couldn't let the opportunity to capture him pass, even though he was alone. He had probably been too excited to acknowledge that the forces were unequal. Even so, Hellstrom would have been proud of himself—Aldo Raine lost two of his men, and the ingenious "Operation Kino" turned into a trivial farce.

"They called him Landa Junior," boasted August, "He could have become an oberstleutenant…"

_Or he could have been hanged from a gibbet with the rest of the Reich's finest_, Landa thought with bitter irony. He looked at the clock and was relieved to see that it was already past four.

"Why don't we finish this hand and call it a day? I'm running out of money," he said briskly. His "confession" made Willy and Albrecht suddenly smile cheerfully.

"It seems you were right—it's not your day!" August winked at him and drained the last of his gin.

Landa offered a false sheepish smile and shrugged his shoulders. He could see the faint stains of pale light at the floor near the window and was more than ready to escape this vault. He willingly lost the rest of his cash.

While Willy and Albrecht shoved their scanty winnings into their pockets, and Hoffman buttoned up his cloak, Landa—a cunning smile on his face— told August obscene anecdotes in a low voice. When the rest of the guests had left the Hellstrom home, he put on his hat and pulled it slightly over his eyes, like a villain from a film noir. He scrutinized himself in the mirror for some time, evaluating his looks.

The gramophone scratched out "Ich brauche keine Millionen" to its conclusion, and Martha Hellstrom emerged to see Landa out.

She started telling him something—something about August, but he didn't hear her. His thoughts were already carrying him back home. Nevertheless, he was gallant enough not to betray his impatience and boredom. He bid a courteous farewell to Martha and slipped out into the twilight of the hall corridor, where the light of dawn breaking could be seen in the big window.

The pearl of the morning beckoned him with its cool air and the subtle scent of damp leaves. A new day was breaking.


	3. Chapter II

**Author's Note: I'd like to express my endless gratitude to everyone who left reviews ****on the first chapter. Your words supported and inspired me a lot.**

**But, as usual, my biggest thanks I send to my Russian beta-reader Mary-Eglantine, to my translator Yana, to Arthemis Day for her kindest help and to my absolutely priceless beta-reader DeboraKLA, a real Author amongst fic-writers, whom I can proudly call a good friend of mine**

**I hope you'll like this one. The third chapter is coming soon, I promise! Reviews and con-crit will be appreciated.**

_**Chapter II**__**: Dr. Newman and Mr. Caspar Lang.**_

_"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us. _

_"How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive." _

_**Arthur Conan Doyle. A Study in Scarlet.**_

Every morning, former SS Standartenführer Hans Landa turned into Caspar Lang – a modest European, one of the many that had arrived in Argentina over the last few years.

The morning was in full swing when Landa returned home from the poker game, which made the quiet solitude of his house even more pleasing than it usually was.

He lived alone and never had any guests. His housemaid preferred to come only when he was out. Frankly speaking, Landa was glad—he didn't like the locals. He considered them inferiors. The housemaid—a small, swarthy woman of indefinite age—seemed to know this instinctively and did her work with due caution, but always quite well.

Landa switched off the lamp in the hallway, which he had deliberately turned on when he'd left the night before, and went upstairs to his bedroom.

The drapes were drawn, yet narrow beams of sunlight glimmered here and there and streamed onto the carpet. Landa threw his coat on the bed and went into the bathroom.

He took his time washing his hands, as if he was trying to wash off dirt only he could see, and finally splashed cool water on his face. Though he felt a bit freshened up, he was still utterly exhausted. This sense of fatigue had haunted him for some time now, and it bothered him immensely.

Landa looked in the mirror. Each sleepless night made him look ten years older. There were dark shadows under his eyes; his sarcastic expression was more distinct, his cheeks more sunken in; the grey mixed with his ash-blond hair seemed brighter and more abundant. Even the scar that crossed his forehead like a monstrous spider looked darker and bigger.

There was a brown glass vial of sleeping pills in his medicine cabinet. Landa shook out a couple of pills, but on second thought put them back.

He didn't have to look for sleep – it was already looking for him.

///

He woke up at about noon—at once fully alert, with no drowsiness, the way a predatory animal might. A dazzling sunbeam cut through the yellowish dusk of the room like a guillotine and was now at his bed.

Landa remembered that the chief of police—one of the few who knew his telephone number—had called him the day before and asked him to come to the police station. It was likely they would ask him for help with a series of crimes, he thought. Four banks in Buenos Aires had been robbed within the last month.

Landa had himself been called an unscrupulous bastard at least fifty-odd times to his face and countless other times behind his back. Since he had arrived in Argentina he had observed the unprincipled behavior of many, many others. The Argentinean authorities covered their eyes and only peeked through their fingers at the inrush of Western European immigrants, mostly German, of course. They were former NSDAP bigwigs, military and "sympathizers"—everyone with trials and jail time awaiting them overseas, that is. The runaways brought money, knowledge and many talents—why should the local authorities let it all slip through their fingers?

Landa was once one of the best detectives in Europe, and now he'd earned a quiet life in exchange for a little help to the local police. But he wasn't very happy about going to the police station—he always had to arrive without attracting the attention of those who knew nothing about him. Fortunately, the local police didn't ask for his help too often.

///

The police chief, Angel Duarte, met Landa with the polite restraint of a man who—if it was in his power—wouldn't ever deal with a former SS Standartenführer, even if he was the best detective in the world. However, he had to obey orders, which were to give Landa as much assistance as possible.

He took Landa into his office and was just about to tell him of the robberies when the sound of a most determined footfall was heard in the waiting room outside, followed by the avid protests of the deputy on duty. Suddenly the door flung open and a stranger strode in. The confused deputy peered out from behind his back, but Duarte motioned him away and he disappeared. The stranger shot a look at Landa and before Landa could think of anything to say, asked him:

"Are you German or Austrian?"

Landa was a little taken aback, but he immediately suppressed his anxiety. He was sure that his hat concealed his scar—in these situations he preferred to ignore etiquette and always left his hat on indoors—and that the stranger couldn't have heard his voice. So he ventured a surprised smile and replied:

"I can't imagine what betrayed me…"

"Again your tricks, Doctor!" Duarte banged his fist on the table. "Don't you think that at the very least it is impolite to burst into my office like this and bombard my guest with your stupid questions?!"

"Come now, Duarte," Landa played the part of a condescending guest amused by what was going on. "Let the Doctor share his secret in detecting my heritage." He turned to the stranger and gave him an inquiring look. The doctor, as Duarte called him, smiled faintly.

"There is no secret. Your facial structure, the form of your cheekbones and especially of your chin" —Landa raised his eyebrows, pretending to be astonished—"indicates that there is German blood in your veins. However, now that I've heard your voice I'll daresay you were born in Vienna."

Landa bowed theatrically: "Bravo, Doctor, that was impressive!"

He turned towards Duarte as though inviting him to share in his enthusiasm, but the police chief was far from happy. "Please, meet Doctor Newman" he said with a frown, "our forensic pathologist."

Landa wasn't used to being surprised, but he was now – this Newman didn't look at all like a medical examiner, much less a physician. Landa turned round to face him and was immediately struck by the sharp look in his dark eyes.

Wavy dark hair, a protruding nose, full lower and thin upper lips, big earlobes…_Newman or Neumann?_ – Landa sneered to himself while smiling heartily at his new acquaintance and holding out his hand: "Caspar Lang."

"Nice to meet you," The doctor answered with a firm handshake.

"What could have induced you to leave London for Buenos Aires?" Landa said in English. The entire situation amused him so much that he seemed to have forgotten that he was in the police chief's office.

When London was mentioned, Newman's eyes glittered slyly. He accepted the challenge: "Let's call it a thirst for adventure," he replied.

"Good God, are Argentinean corpses more interesting to dissect than British ones? " Landa didn't even try to conceal the sarcasm in his voice.

Duarte brought their game to a quick halt. "Gentlemen, I must interrupt this Sherlock-Holmes-versus-Professor-Higgins match to remind the good doctor that you wanted to tell me something."

"That's right," Newman paused for a moment before going on. "I'd like to ask you to turn over the Garcia case to a competent detective."

Duarte shook his head with impatience. "Come now, Doctor! There were no bloodthirsty maniacs this time. Garcia was smothered with a pillow. It's likely that some jealous mistress of his decided to do away with him once and for all. I assure you, it will only take a few days to solve that murder. Anyone can handle it. Are you not aware of the series of bank robberies? All my best detectives are involved in that investigation!"

Duarte fell silent now that the subject was exhausted. Newman didn't say a word. Apparently, he was used to such outbursts.

"If you don't mind, Chief Duarte," Landa broke the silence, "I could help the doctor. An outsider's viewpoint wouldn't do any harm, right?"

Doctor Newman looked at him with interest, considering his offer. "Are you at all familiar with police practices?"

"Well, actually, I am," Landa said nonchalantly, his face absolutely serious.

"I'd prefer Señor Lang help us with the bank robberies," said Duarte, but he caught Landa's warning eye and quickly understood that he had little choice in the matter. Landa would decide how and with whom he'd help the police. "But I won't insist. Do as you wish. I warn you, though—this case isn't worth a tinker's damn."

Newman's face expressed neither joy nor disappointment, but Landa was rather glad. "If you don't mind, I'll show you the body," said Newman.

Landa thought it all rather amusing, so he willingly agreed. "Certainly, Doctor! Be my Virgil and take me to the very cold center of your hell."

///

They had just left Duarte's office when Newman remarked, "You know, you don't quite look like a detective."

Landa gave him a broad smile and answered heartily, "Trust me; my qualifications are more than adequate for this case. By the way, you don't look like a forensic pathologist, either. I mean, not at all." His tone was breezy and cheerful.

He was right. Doctor Newman looked like a classic English gentleman—three-piece grey suit fit to a T, watch chain crossing his vest, cream-colored carnation in his buttonhole, a small ring with a seal on the little finger of his left hand—he looked quite the picture from a book rather than your typical corpse-ripper. The only things missing that would complete that picture were a derby and a walking stick.

"You're not the first to say that," Newman replied, smiling slightly. His tone made it clear that he had no interest in exploring the subject, further so Landa reverted to the case at hand. "So what's the story with this Garcia case?"

"You'll see. Be prepared—our morgue is indeed as cold as Cocytus."

The route to the morgue appeared much like the route to hell. They walked down long hallways and descended endless staircases, meeting all manner of people along the way, before finally arriving in a basement corridor with a glass door at the end.

The corridor was dark and damp, which only made the atmosphere more grim. _, M.D._, read the black doorplate.

What was a London dandy looking for here, at the back of beyond? Newman was smart and no doubt considered a good specialist. Why did the corpse of this particular autopsy intrigue him so much?

"Welcome," Newman's voice was filled with sarcasm as he flung open the door. The morgue was rather spacious. In the middle stood an old dissection table; three gurneys with corpses covered with sheets were against the walls and the Doctor's "office" was hidden by a large, white folding screen, the type usually used by patients to disrobe in examining rooms. Only the two lamps looked out of place, their matte yellow lampshades better suited for a lively café.

"Well, they do give warm light," Newman had caught Landa's puzzled eye. "I've asked Chief Duarte to buy me a simple operating lamp—a used one would do—but he preferred these…well, these 'luminaries'."

Landa grinned. His eyes were still wandering around the room—the screened-off corner interested him most of all.

"It seems the 'luminaries' are not the only thing subject to Duarte's thriftiness," he nodded towards the "office."

An ironic smile passed over Newman's face—he understood completely that Landa would judge him by his workspace. He moved the screen willingly. Even if Landa was disappointed, he gave no sign of it. There was nothing in Newman's "office" that would give away anything in the least about its inhabitant's personality or habits—just a simple writing table, a chair, a desk set and a coat rack.

But Landa also knew that if these simple things didn't tell him anything about their daily inhabitant, then that person must have something to hide.

Newman put on his white coat and surgical gloves and rolled one of the gurneys into the middle of the room. "This is Señor Garcia."

Landa's face lit with interest as he approached the gurney. Newman threw the sheet back. Garcia had been a tall, very thin man of about 70. The colors of death—parchment-like skin, yellow in the light of the lamps, and a livid face—made him resemble a monstrous wax doll. His mouth was half-open; it appeared that rigor mortis had begun long before the body was found.

"Cause of death?" asked Landa. He suddenly remembered something he thought he had forgotten long ago; how he used to start all his murder investigations with the Vienna police in the morgue.

Doctor Newman was pleased by the familiar professional phrasing in this simple question and answered willingly. "Asphyxia," he said, pointing to the loose skin on Garcia's throat. "There are no constriction marks, no hand marks or bruises on the neck, the lingual bone is not broken, and the larynx and esophagus are intact. There are, however, subconjunctival hemorrhages in both eyeballs and cyanosis of the face and mucous membranes. His mouth was covered with foam when they brought him here, and according to the crime scene report there were saliva marks on his pillow."

"Duarte may be right," drawled Landa. "This poor fellow might be the victim of a jealous wife or mistress. Or perhaps some relatives grew impatient waiting to inherit his fortune."

"You're the investigator," Newman said with a smile. "You figure it out. Judging from the case report Garcia was a single, elderly man, an assistant accountant who worked at a tobacco store. The reason for my particular interest in this case is this—"

Newman removed the sheet entirely to reveal huge bruises on the abdomen and both sides of the body.

"He got these bruises either right before the death or perhaps during it," explained Newman, "That's why they appeared only a few hours after his death. Considering the cause of death, someone had to have been straddling him—someone tall and strong. I think it was a man at least six feet—he must have been squeezing Garcia tightly between his legs, to keep him from escaping."

_This is quite interesting,_ thought Landa. He went round the gurney, examining the body carefully.

"As we know," he suddenly began, "there are three possible motives for a murder: passion, profit or hatred. Sometimes vengeance is singled out, but I consider vengeance as one form of hatred," he said in the tone of a lecturer. "The method of this crime is clear – it's hard to imagine that this could have been an accident. We cannot rule out any of the possibilities until they are all investigated. We should consider, however, whether anyone might have killed the man out of greed or jealousy."

He took the case folder from Newman's table and looked through it. "The report says that nothing in the flat was missing, not even the wallet."

He raised his eyes and met Newman's intent gaze. The doctor seemed to be waiting for a revelation of some sort, like an audience that has seen the same film many times anticipates an actor's most famous lines.

"You were right, doctor," Landa inclined his head in a respectful bow. "This case appears to be very interesting indeed."

Newman covered the body carefully, demonstrating his respect for the deceased, and replied, "Although my opinion has little weight in this matter, I will insist that you take this case, Mister Lang, even if Duarte assigns one of his own men to it."

They looked at each other. There was a hint of astonishment in Landa's eyes. His sense of exhilaration and triumph felt much like that of a hunter who sees his prey directly in the line of fire, just as it's crossing his path. Newman appeared to be observing his reaction and trying to decipher it.

Landa crooked a smile, the way a naughty boy about to pull a prank might. "Then, with your permission, doctor, I'll check in with you throughout this investigation."

"I'll be honored." The phrase seemed rather overdramatic, but Newman's face appeared absolutely detached, so Landa went with it. Newman looked serious. He frowned suddenly—as though he'd just remembered something. "I'm sorry," he said apologetically, "but I must run. I have to give a lecture at the university—"

"Ah, so you are a university professor, then?" —_That profession better suits you_, thought Landa.

Newman took off his white coat, smoothed out the wrinkles and hung it on the coat rack. "Yes, I am. I lecture on comparative anatomy."

"Then I won't detain you any longer. May I borrow this?" Landa raised the case folder he was still holding.

"Certainly. And if you need my help, you can always find me here in the afternoon."

Landa said goodbye to Newman—as cordially as the rules of etiquette and his mood permitted—and went out into the dark corridor. He had only taken a few steps when he turned round and went back.

"Doctor?" He stuck his head through the open door like a student late for the lecture.

"Yes?" Newman was a bit puzzled by his return.

"I forgot to ask," Landa said in his most innocent voice. "What does the letter 'E' stand for?" He pointed to the doorplate. "Edward?"

"No", Newman's voice was slightly puzzled, "'E' stands for Eli".

Landa smiled broadly, revealing a set of sharp, wolfish teeth, then nodded goodbye and dissolved into the darkness of the corridor.


	4. Chapter III part 1

**Disclaimer: The canon characters belong to QT.**

**AN: Thanks for everyone, who's read my story so far and whenever will read it, for those who left reviews and asked questions (did I answer all your messages?). But the list of my "special thanks" is growing longer with each new chapter. These are people, whose help is invaluable: my translator Yana, my Russian beta and gamma-readers Mary-Eglantine and Hard-Candy-CSC, who keep me sane and accurate, my English editor DeborahKLA, whose brilliant talent of a writer and an editor is worth much more than my humble text, and Mirial, my keen and wise consultant, who knows the answer on any question.**

**Ladies, your help and friendship are above rubies for me.**

**AN2: This chapter turned out to be very long, so I divided it in 2 parts. Here's the first part. Your comments, con-crit and reviews are welcome!:)**

**Chapter III. Four Moments From the Past (part I).**

_And yet my sky shall not want stars._

**W. Shakespeare, ****Henry V, Act III, scene VII**

Hans Landa never doubted he would become a detective. While his brother Friedrich dreamt of military service and his friends planned to fly across the Atlantic some day, Hans had always wanted to solve crimes.

What was the use of military service? Drilling and obeying orders were meant for those who needed guidance and couldn't make their own decisions. Landa couldn't stand having his freedom limited.

Racing autos, flying planes, traveling to the ends of the earth were good for men who didn't realize that there were greater excitements than high speed, the wind blowing in your face or touring exotic landscapes.

The moral side of the profession didn't interest Landa: he wasn't excited about fighting crime or becoming a hero. Striving to achieve the ideals of manhood and conquering evil held no appeal for him. No, it was the investigative process that intrigued him.

Nothing was more exciting than watching events unfold, coming to conclusions, putting together scattered evidence like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Nothing was more pleasing to him than casting his nets and waiting for his prey to get entangled in them as though they were a sticky spider's web.

Landa knew that realizing his dreams would not be easy. He was the oldest son and his future had been predetermined – he was to inherit his father's business.

By the time Hans was born, his father—Emil Landa—was the principal of the law firm of _Landa and Sons_ that had been in existence since the 1850s. He had taken the reins after his father's death and his brothers were his partners. The firm had done quite well for many years and Landa Senior was happily convinced that his oldest son would one day head one of the most successful law firms in Vienna. From the time he was a very young child, Hans was raised to understand that this was his destiny. He realized that no one would take his wishes into account, so he decided to keep mum up about them and, to a certain point, do everything required of him to meet his father's expectations.

So Hans—Landa Junior, as it were—entered the school of law at the University of Vienna just as his father expected him to, but he chose to study criminal law instead of civil law. Emil—Landa Senior—was disappointed, but on second thoughts decided that his son's choice was not a bad one. Although _Landa and Sons_ had always specialized in civil and family law, Hans could become the first Landa to serve as a defense attorney at criminal procedures. Landa Senior was still laboring under this delusion when his son, who was on practical training as a certified Viennese attorney, expressed his intent to work for the police and announced that he had applied for the post of junior investigative assistant.

///

_**Vienna, 1923**_

"_What?!" His father asked, his voice faltering._

"_I got a job with the police," Hans patiently repeated. Emil stared at him; he could barely find the words to express his emotions. Hans rocked on his heels, his hands deep in his pockets, as he waited for his father's response. _

"_If this is a joke, now's a good time to end it," his father finally spluttered._

"_Have I ever joked with you?" Hans asked calmly._

_A wave of anger swept over Emil like a tsunami.__ "What the hell are you doing?!"_

_Hans ducked his head as if in shame, and his ash blonde hair__fell over his forehead. But a moment later he raised his head and looked his father square in the eye._

"_I knew you would say that," he announced defiantly._

"_Oh, you did, by Jove?! Did you, damn it?!" Emil gasped for breath; he could feel a strong pressure in his chest. His son gazed at him in indifference._

_Emil had always known that once Hans made up his mind about something, it was best to leave well enough alone. But in the past his unyielding stances had always been over relatively harmless diversions—like his interest in German Expressionism. In pursuit of that interest the boy would disappear for hours in the cinema, but he always kept up his studies and stuck to his goals. This was different._

_Emil took a deep breath, as if to rid the pressure in his chest, and asked, slowly, "Why did you do this?"_

"_Because I like police work," Hans replied calmly. It was clear that he had made __his decision long ago. "I've always wanted to do this, for as long as I can remember."_

_Emil gazed at his son's face, now an imperturbable and firmly dispassionate mask. "Your entire life? But you're only twenty-two! What is so attractive about endless shit-digging?"_

"_I've always been much more interested in 'digging shit,' as you put it, than in processing divorce suits and last wills and testaments." Hans was absolutely calm as he spoke, and that was what vexed Emil the most. "You never asked me what I wanted to do. You planned everything for me, years in advance. It obviously never occurred to you that I might think differently—that I might want to do something else."_

_It took Emil some time to weigh the possible solutions. During his silence Hans waited patiently, a subtle smile on his face. The situation amused him more than anything else, and he was enjoying every minute of it._

"_What do I have to do?" Emil finally asked__. A derisive and cynical gaze was his son's only answer. "What do I have to do to make you give up this ridiculous idea?" His father's voice was impatient now._

"_I don't need anything," Hans replied with almost sadistic pleasure. "I just stopped by to let you know."_

"_And to collect your belongings, I gather," Emil snarled._

_Hans' nostrils flared briefly, but he remained calm. "And to collect my belongings," he replied._

_He was about to leave when his father asked, "What am I supposed to tell your mother and brother?"_

_Hans half turned and flung out,__ "Tell them I'm not a worthy heir to the glorious von Kroys."_

_His mother's ancestors had been through the Crusades and fought for their lands against numerous Popes. Over the centuries the von Kroys had nearly become extinct. They had lost their splendor, their lands and wealth. So when the young, successful attorney Emil Landa asked for Kristina von Kroy's hand in marriage in return for his money, neither she nor her parents hesitated. The bargain was good for both sides—Landa got a member of nobility for a spouse and easy access to high society, while Kristina—thanks to her husband's fortune— was able to partially restore her family's fame._

_Hans knew exactly what was going to happen when his father broke the news to his mother and Friedrich. He could easily picture his mother's pale face, her hands reaching out to grasp something for support while his brother looked overwhelmed. The image was a delightful one, and Hans smiled._

"_Get out!" __Emil's hand rested on a heavy paperweight. Hans wanted to say something biting before leaving, but decided not to tempt fate. He quickly slipped out the door, leaving it ajar._

///

Affairs with actresses were common among SS officers in the Third Reich. In fact, it was even on the secret list of their "obligatory duties."

The Führer's "knights" constantly chased after blonde bombshells and endlessly boasted about the little souvenirs and trophies they acquired. These could be anything: a glove, a handkerchief stained with lipstick or a brooch; the lucky ones got shoes, and the real daredevils got lace garters.

Hans Landa looked upon the hunt for souvenirs and trophies with disdain and refused to participate. He never had to provide proof of his love affairs. Everyone knew it took him no time or trouble at all to charm and subsequently seduce any woman he wanted.

There was a time when actresses really attracted him. Those gorgeous women seemed so distant and desired. But he quickly found them disappointing. There was nothing to accompany their charming looks but vulgar stupidity; any mystery surrounding them quickly turned into mincing manners that only wore him out. To say nothing of their coldness—actresses were just like prostitutes, really. The only differences were the higher price and better image.

But when the Reich came to power and the war began, these gaudy butterflies were welcome. Traditional romance simply took too much time and effort.

///

_**Berlin, 1929**_

_In November, Hans Landa just happened to be in Germany. He was investigating an important fraud__ case and had followed the suspect to Berlin. _

_Years later that trip would seem nothing more than a drab gray dream with a monotonous sequence of shots. There was one morning, however, that he would always remember with great pleasure._

_Hans had some spare time that morning. He had just sent a telegram to his boss in Vienna, reporting on the course of the investigation, and was now awaiting further instructions. _

_He didn't want to waste this precious time by spending it with the local police, who irritated him greatly. They often made him marvel at how infinitely stupid men could be. So he chose to take a stroll around the city, instead. _

_It was cold out, and Hans felt the chill fairly quickly. He slipped into the nearest café to warm up with a cup of coffee. It was about ten in the morning and nearly all the tables were vacant. He was about to sit at the window so he could sip his coffee while gazing out at the people in the street—like a cat watching the fish swim around in their tank—when suddenly he noticed a young lady sitting alone at a table on the far side of the café._

_For a moment Landa couldn't believe his eyes. No, it couldn't be true—it was a miracle, a dream, an incredible coincidence, a Halley's comet! A coat with a stand-up collar, a clever little cloche with rooster's feathers to cover her short, bobbed hair, a gentle face, dark eyes and cherry-red lips—it couldn't be anyone else!_

_Landa felt like a boy who had just opened a much-wanted present on Christmas morning. He slipped out into the street to purchase a photo card at the nearest newsstand, which wasn't easy; he had to shuffle through a whole heap of cards under the glaring eyes of the newspaperman until he found the one he was looking for. He handed over a few coins and returned to the café. _

_The girl was still there. She was reading a book and seemed oblivious to everyone around her. Landa placed his order, pointing at her table. He then went up to her._

"_If it was evening," he said in a low voice to avoid attracting attention, "I would invite you to have a glass of Champagne with me. But it's morning, so I took the courtesy of ordering you a glass of milk and some strudel instead, Miss Brooks."_

_Louise Brooks—star of the two most recent films directed by George Wilhelm Pabst and a world-famous American actress—put her book down to look at the handsome young stranger. Her wonderful eyes shone like blackcurrants in the morning dew._

"_Well, obviously my disguise didn't work," she smiled, and Landa understood that as an invitation to join her._

"_It's no fault on your part. I'm a detective. I notice things that others don't," he told her as he took the seat opposite her, so they could face each other._

"_A detective? Well, that's better than yet another wealthy trust fund boy who thinks too highly of himself," declared Brooks, casting an arch look at him._

"_Trust me, I ask nothing more than to drink a glass of milk in your company." Hans was smiling, but his tone was serious. His remark made Brooks laugh. She chortled so loudly she had to hide behind her book—the other people in the café had all turned to look at her._

"_Don't worry, I'm sure no one here knows you," Landa told her in a stage whisper._

"_All the better," a light shadow crossed her face. " I'm so tired of hearing the same words over and over again, 'this is the American woman who played our Lulu!'"_

"_You must be joking!" Landa became serious._

"_Unfortunately, I'm not." S__he glanced at his piercing eyes but immediately looked away. "After _Tagebuch_ came out I was afraid that people would do me in for the very 'amoral' image I created." She shivered._

"_Just ignore them."__ It was one of those rare occasions when Landa spoke seriously to a woman, but her distress had disturbed him. "_Die Büchse der Pandora_ and _Tagebuch_ are Pabst's best films, and it's your acting that made them so."_

_Brooks looked down; she didn't say a word, but her brow knitted. Landa didn't dare touch her; he couldn't even place a comforting hand over hers, which was encased in __a black suede glove and clenched into a fist. He knew many actresses—some of them on screen, some in person—but none of them was worth a single hair on the head of this charming little goddess with whom he was seated._

_The waiter brought their milk and strudel._

"_I've had absinthe, Champagne and all sorts of wines as my morning repast," Brooks laughed, "but never milk and strudel!"_

"_This strudel is worth crossing the Atlantic," he told her, and ate a bite with the air of a true connoisseur. Brooks followed his example, and her childish face blushed with pleasure. _

"_I say! It really is!"_

_Landa shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Of course it is. Would I lie to Louise Brooks?" _

_He couldn't tell if she was simply skilled at quickly hiding her true feelings or if she really liked him, but she laughed again, a laugh as soft yet deep as her voice._

"_By the way, you speak English very well. And you have quite a nice accent—nothing at all like the Berlin _woof-woof-woof_." Her enthusiasm made her all the prettier; her cheeks flushed slightly and her black eyes sparkled._

"_Ah, but that's because I am not a Berliner," Landa replied as he gazed into her eyes. "I was born and raised in Vienna, Austria, where our accent is rather softer and more refined than that of North Germany." He could no longer conceal his admiration as he absorbed her beauty and basked in the rays of her good cheer._

_She took a sip of milk and put the glass back down on the table. Landa noticed the slightest trace of a milk moustache above her dark cherry lips, and suddenly wondered how cherries would taste in cream. Brooks, it seemed, understood his glance. _

"_I'd like to propose a toast." Suddenly shy, she ducked her head; but then, as though she'd plucked up the courage to do so, she raised it once more and looked him straight in the eye. "It's a dramatic one, to be sure. But may our respective careers prosper and bring us not just wealth but also happiness!"_

_Her toast surprised Landa, but he raised his glass. Brooks downed the rest of her milk, then glanced at her watch:_

"_It's time for me to go," she said, with just the slightest tinge of regret. _

_Landa drew the photo card he'd purchased as well as a pen out of his pocket and put them both in front of her without saying a word. Miss Louise Brooks pondered them for a moment._

"_What is your name?" she finally asked._

"_Hans Landa."_

"_It suits you well. If you ever consider a career as an actor, you won't need to change it."_

_It was as though she didn't want to leave, and was simply looking for ways to continue their conversation. She hesitated for a moment, then finally took the card and signed it, in the corner_: To Hans Landa. Thank you for the milk and strudel. Louise Brooks, 1929_._

_In just a few years her acting career would end and Louise Brooks' star would forever disappear from the Hollywood sky. _

_As for __Landa, he would hold onto his one and only cinematic trophy, keeping it among his many documents and papers until one chilly, foggy morning his own career ended in a forest outside Paris, just a few miles into the Allied Zone._


End file.
